His Mother's Son: 1. His Mother's Son

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1. His Mother's Son

she totters, drunken
hate flashes between you two
a single push and...


*

then

She laughs- drunk on too much wine and dancing- and twirls away from you.
You scowl- always she is like this, always has been.

"Wife, listen to me. You need to take this seriously. The Shadow grows in Middle Earth, and-"

She laughs again, and strikes a pose against the banister of the great staircase.

"And I have courtiers to deal with such things. I am Queen of Nùmenor, am I not? I should not have to sully myself with such trifles-"

The red rage you have had to stifle so many times these past long years rises within you, and you grab her by the arm.

"Sully yourself? Sully yourself?"

She glares daggers at you, proud and wilful and every inch the beauty who captivated you all those years ago.

"Aye, husband, sully myself. Who cares what happens in Middle Earth? We live on an island given to us by the Gods themselves- what care have we for those who live elsewhere?"

You let go of her arm and turn, your fingers twined in your hair. Where to start, where to begin showing her her folly, where to-

"I think you forget yourself, my husband. I am Queen- you are merely my consort. Should I wish it I could have you banished to your beloved Middle Earth, you and all of your silly, fanciful-"

ENOUGH.

You whirl, catch her off balance, deliver one sudden slap to her cheek to break her out of her drunken ramblings, to-

Oh, Gods, no.

No.

The impact spins her on the spot, pirouetting like a dancer before gravity takes over and she falls, falls, falls...

Helpless you watch, horror-struck as she hits every step on the way down, landing in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the staircase. You fly to her side- taking the steps two at a time- but you are too late. Her neck is twisted at an unnatural angle, blood runs from her mouth and eyes...

Oh, Gods, no.

You stand from the already-cooling corpse and wring your hands. You did not mean this- of course you did not mean this- all you wanted to do was to snap her out of the spell that the drink had laid upon her- all you wanted was to-

The boy.

Oh, Gods, the boy.

He stands, staring at you, staring at her, staring dumbfounded at everything and nothing and everywhere inbetween.

You lick your lips.

"I can explain."

*
vengeance has fester'd
far too many years have pass'd
now there comes an end

*

now

Looking at each other at the top of the stairs, you can contain yourself no longer.

"Father, you are old- too old. The court no longer trusts you- by all the Gods, the people no longer trust you. Step aside, as the kings of yore did- let me rule in your place. Let me make you proud, let me be a king to make the name of Nùmenor roar in the ears of the world once more."

He shakes his head, turns away from you, grips the banister with hands spotted and weak with age, and in that moment you hate him more than ever.

"My son, my Alcarin, I wish I could- but you know what your mother decreed."

Hatred boils within you at his lie, but you keep it in check.

For now.

"I will only give up the throne when I know that it is safe for you to ascend it- when I know that I can give a safe and secure kingdom to my beloved son."

You bite your lip with every fresh lie he piles in front of you.

"After all, you are still a young man- there are those who would destroy you given half the chance- those who would bring you down and bring our beautiful island screaming and bleeding into a war it did not want. Would you have such a thing happen, all for the sake of your own stupid, stubborn pride?"

You say nothing.
He is your father, after all.

"I will give up the throne of Nùmenor when the time is right, and not before. It is what your mother would have wanted, after all. If she were here now she would say-"

ENOUGH.

You grab the old man by his shoulders and spin him around, hate blazing in your eyes.

"I know exactly what you did to my mother, father. I saw you that night."

His eyes boggle in his skull, and the realisation that you have hit a nerve spurs you on to fresh cruelty.

"I know that you murdered my mother and but for the fact that once upon a time she loved you I would have slaughtered you a hundred thousand times for your sin."

He tries to speak, but you cut him off.

"I could drown the world a thousand times and the stain of what you did to her would not wash away."

This is good, this feels good, you take a step towards him, forcing him a step back, bumping his back against the banister.

"You murdered my mother, you son of a whore."

You grin as he realises your intent.

Realises his doom.

"Allow me to return the favour."

One single push against his chest is all it takes, and the old man- your father- plummets over the edge of the staircase and smashes on the cold stone below.

You look down on his broken body impassively, watch the blood pool around him like a corona around the sun.

Twenty years, you think.

You feel nothing.

Twenty years.

Twenty years it took you to take revenge.

But if it is nothing...

Twenty years...

...then why does it feel so good?


This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.

Story Information

Author: Aruthir

Status: General

Completion: Complete

Era: 2nd Age - Rings

Genre: Drama

Rating: Adult

Last Updated: 07/09/14

Original Post: 12/11/09

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